


Take a Breath

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Foxtrot [115]
Category: Dollhouse, Sisters (1991 TV), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any(/any), any/any, breath play." Rodney goes on a date with Imprint Pianist. Set post-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Breath

Rodney’s date with Pianist couldn’t go wrong. He was blind, and he was a pianist. Not much to him, or so Brian - the Official Imprint Dating Coordinator - had told him. Pianist had trained to be a classical concert pianist but worked in a piano bar (and was the sometime lover of a deeply closeted businessman who was a dabbling musician himself and dreamed of La Vie Boheme). So when Rodney checked his Official Imprint Dating Calendar (and someone had to stop Brian from naming things, because there were always too many capitalized words involved), he saw that he was supposed to meet Pianist at a local coffee shop. Sounded like a harmless enough date, no fending off advances at an upscale but still shady S&M club or losing at pool in a dive bar, so Rodney dressed up nicely (even though it technically didn’t matter, since Pianist was blind) and set off at the appointed time.  
  
He parked on the street out front of the coffee shop (Magic Beans) and stepped onto the pavement just in time to see Pianist, wearing John’s aviator shades and wielding a striped cane, step off of one of the city buses. He was clad in jeans and a dark sweater (it looked like one Traci had knitted, actually), and people gave him a wide berth as he made his way toward the coffee shop.  
  
Rodney stepped forward, greeted him. “Hey, uh -”  
  
“Hello, Rodney.” Pianist had a gentle, dreamy voice. He turned toward Rodney, walked toward him, folded his cane so he didn’t whack Rodney in the shins, and he smiled. “Right on time. Shall we?”  
  
“Let’s.” Rodney reached out, tapped the back of his hand against Pianist’s, and Pianist grasped his arm directly above the elbow. Brian had given him a crash course in blind etiquette, but Rodney was terrified of screwing it up. He was careful to stay one step ahead of Pianist and narrate the way to the door of the coffee shop. It wasn’t until he was right at the door that he realized all of the windows had been blacked out, including the windows set in the door, but the sign on the door indicated the place was open.  
  
Was it some kind of blind-only coffee shop? Was Rodney going to be the only seeing person in there? He had visions of himself running into blind people and accidentally stepping on their guide dogs and -  
  
Pianist reached out and knocked on the door.  
  
It opened a fraction, and girl with kohl-lined eyes peered at him. “Who are you?”  
  
“John Sheppard plus guest,” Pianist said.  
  
The girl looked down, consulted something on her smartphone, then nodded and opened the door wide. “Come on in.”  
  
“I thought this was a coffee shop,” Rodney whispered, guiding Pianist into the building, warning him of the step and the railing that ran along the coffee counter.  
  
“It usually is,” Pianist said, “but tonight, it’s a poetry brothel.”  
  
Rodney blinked. “A what now?”  
  
But he could see that the ordinary coffee shop had been transformed. Tie-dyed and batik silks hung from the ceiling, and the room was bathed in soft candlelight. Some mismatched wooden tables and chairs had been arrayed in front of a small stage with a microphone and a couple of amps. The coffee counter had been transformed into a bar, and all along the walls little booths had been erected out of wooden screens and yet more flowing cloth partitions and doors.  
  
All kinds of people were drifting around, holding drinks and conversing quietly with one another.  
  
“I thought about going to a piano bar,” Pianist said, “or maybe an open mic night and seeing what you can play under pressure - I know you have some Rachmaninov in there - but this seemed like more fun. I enjoy good poetry. Poetry done right sounds as beautiful aloud as it does in my head when it comes off the page.”  
  
“When you say brothel,” Rodney began.  
  
“No sex involved,” a woman said, sliding up to them. She was dressed like a medieval barmaid in an off-the-shoulder blouse, corset, and full skirt, her dark hair spilling around her face in ringlets. She was beautiful. “But you can buy the services of a poet for the night. Recitations and original compositions, just for you and your companion.”  
  
Rodney relaxed a fraction. It was a strange concept, but he’d once lived in an alien city in a whole other galaxy. “Oh! That sounds - lovely.” He preferred non-fiction to fiction and had never had a great appreciation for poetry (although he’d enjoyed reading plays in his youth, before his dreams of being a master thespian were murdered, as they always were, by his parents), but he could roll with the punches here.  
  
“Enjoy your evening,” the woman said, and drifted away, skirts rustling.  
  
“So, what do you want to do?” Rodney asked.  
  
“Drinks first, I think. And then we can listen to the poets audition.”  
  
Rodney guided Pianist to the bar, read him drink options off the menu, paid for the drinks, and then guided Pianist to a table near the stage. Rodney remembered to pause, pull the chair out, and then put his guiding hand on the chair so Pianist could follow his arm into the chair, and then he sat down beside Pianist, facing the bar.  
  
After about fifteen minutes, all of the tables were full. Given how Pianist had had to give a name and a plus one at the door, Rodney suspected the event was invite-only.  
  
The medieval bar wench, Asia, took the stage and welcomed everyone to Poetry Night, told them to sit back, enjoy their drinks, and enjoy the main attractions. Apparently the first seven poets were featured, and the others after them were auditioning, and if patrons were not interested in hiring a personal poet, they could enjoy the readings and recitations on stage all evening.  
  
Three hours of beautiful language, Asia said.  
  
Pianist leaned in and whispered in Rodney’s ear, “Remember, you don’t applaud for poets, you snap. Three times. And these poets aren’t like other poets. They all - play roles.”  
  
“Play roles?” Rodney hissed.  
  
Pianist laughed softly, and his breath against Rodney’s ear sent shivers down his spine. “Not like role-playing in the sexual sense. You’ll see what I mean.”  
  
The first poet was neither male nor female, best as Rodney could tell, but beautiful, with flawless dark skin, big dark eyes, and long dark hair. In fact, Angel - for that was how the poet was introduced - looked remarkably like one of the androgynous statues of Indian gods Rodney had seen in Daniel Jackson’s office one time.  
  
Angel’s first poem was an autobiography woven with the telling of a sunrise. As the sun climbed higher in the sky and the sky changed colors, Angel danced from life to life, woman and man, warrior and lover, general and foot soldier, courtesan and slave, king and queen, god and goddess, and as the sun reached its zenith - poet.  
  
Rodney was no authority on poetry, but Angel’s voice - light for a man, deep and husky for a woman - was lovely, soothing, and the poem itself had been rhythmic, building to a crescendo.  
  
“What did you think?” Pianist had scooted his chair closer to Rodney so he could whisper in Rodney’s ear with the faintest tilt of his head.  
  
“Interesting,” Rodney managed.  
  
Again with that soft laughter, that cool breath sending shivers down Rodney’s spine.  
  
The next poet was Julian - tall, slender, pale-haired, blue-eyed, with a voice like elemental music, water over rock. He had escaped from a genie bottle when wished to life by an owner whom he loved, but then she loved another, and he roamed the desert sands, searching for love and collecting poems instead, poems he hinted at between recitations of his fictional life story.  
  
Rodney was sure that the other poets were fascinating, but he was incredibly, incredibly distracted by the way Pianist kept whispering in his ear, of Pianist’s breath against his skin. Pianist was pretty harmless, though. No way he was doing this deliberately.  
  
Or was he? Because surely he’d noticed the way Rodney was shifting in his seat, the way Rodney had to tug at his collar a few times.  
  
When the main attractions were done reciting their poems, Asia returned to the stage to open the bidding, and Pianist asked Rodney who he’d like to hear, and Rodney said something - he wasn’t sure what - but then he and Pianist were being escorted to a side booth with a dark-skinned girl who had broad Polynesian features and was wearing a red dress that matched the bright red tips of her hair.  
  
The girl probably recited beautiful poetry, but all Rodney could think about was the way Pianist sat behind him just so, and the way his breath scrolled up Rodney’s neck like the ghost of a kiss.  
  
And then the girl left and was replaced by the blond genie boy, and Rodney was hyper-focused on the way Pianist was practically blowing in his ear.  
  
By the time the night was over, Rodney was a trembling wreck, but every time he glanced over at Pianist, the man was smiling serenely and calmly, like listening to poetry was some form of zen meditation.  
  
Rodney headed out to the car, Pianist still on his arm.  
  
“So, uh, thanks for a lovely evening,” Rodney said. “That was fun. Enlightening. You have great taste in poetry -”  
  
“You have very sensitive skin, Rodney. John will like that, when the time comes.” And Pianist’s smile was something other than serene.  
  
“You?” Rodney protested. “You were supposed to be the easy date! Dom was the one who would -”  
  
“Don’t underestimate any of us, Rodney,” Pianist said. “We are none of us what we seem.” He leaned up, pressed a cool kiss to Rodney’s cheek, then unfolded his cane and headed for the bus stop.  
  
Rodney climbed behind the wheel of his car, still shaking, and made a beeline for home. An ice-cold shower was very much in order.


End file.
